


Pay the Piper

by Carbon65



Series: Great British Bake Off AU [3]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: #LetCrutchieSayFuck2K18, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Disabled Character, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Coffee, Diabetes, Family antics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Smoking, Spoons, The Author Regrets Everything, but not the kind you play, fatigue, i love my cousins, wump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14957690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbon65/pseuds/Carbon65
Summary: Spoon fights take on a whole new meaning when you live with chronic illness or chronic fatigue.In which Race bonds with his cousin, Spot goes grocery shopping, Crutchie makes coffee, and there is a hurricane in the kitchen.





	Pay the Piper

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between chapters 8 and 9 of Have your Cake and Eat it, too. The second isn't entirely required for context, other than that Race had an epic low blood sugar and Crutchie over did it.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings
> 
> Swearing. If you're used to Have Your Cake and Eat it too, you're used to the degree to which my characters swear.  
> Chronic illness and chronic pain. Smoking. Alcohol.

The mayor sent East, West, North and South,  
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth  
Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,  
Silver and gold to his heart’s content,  
If he’d only return the way he went,  
And bring the children behind him.  
_The Pied Piper of Hamelin_ by Robert Browning 

* * *

“Race?”

“Mmmm?” 

He makes a face and thinks about flipping the voice off, but that’s probably a bad idea. He doesn’t want to open his eyes to determine if its a good idea or not. He just wants to go back to sleep.

“Racer, you gotta wake up,” The voice repeats. “Otherwise, I’m calling Auntie Carma.”

That’s a threat. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with his mom right now. Truth be told, he doesn’t have the energy to interact with anyone right now. They can prop him up in a corner and put sunglasses on him like some weird taxidermy corpse, but, fuck it, he really just needs sleep.

He prys his eyes open, and looks up at his cousin, Henry. He’s not sure he wants to see Henry right now, and he thinks about closing his eyes, again. 

And then, Spot Conlon comes around the side of the car, overnight bags slung across his chest like bandoliers. “Let’s go, asshole.”

Race climbs out of the van. This is definitely not midtown. Why the fuck aren’t they in midtown? Crutchie had offered to drive him home. This isn’t home. 

He just wants to fucking go home, take a fucking shower, and fall asleep in his own bed. Yes, the hotel shower was lovely. It helped. But, he’s got some of those adhesive remover wipes he likes at home, and he can sit if he gets tired, and his shampoo smells awesome. And then, his bed is, well, it’s _his_ bed. And _his_ clean pajamas. And, he shouldn’t have to say anything but that. He wants to go home, wash away the hospital another time, and then fall into bed.

“We weren’t sure if you were okay to be left alone,” Spot explains. “And, so, we’re at Crutchie’s.”

“I was fine to be alone as soon as my blood sugar came back up,” Race spits back. “The recovery time is hours, not days.”

“The ER doc didn’t want you alone last night. It was probably a good thing.” Spot scowls. “I need some sleep.”

“You didn’t have to… I would have been…”

Spot raises a hand to cut him off.

“There’s a twenty four hour recovery time,” He finally gets out. “That’s how long it takes for your liver to build up its reserves. We’re past that window, I’m fine. Can someone please take me to the train station so I can go home? I have to work tomorrow.” 

Spot rolls his eyes, and motions at Henry. “You know his mom?”

“Yeah?” Henry asks, warily. “She’s my aunt?”

Spot glares at Race. “He’s being an idiot.”

“He’s always an idiot.” Henry objects.

Race throws his hands up. “Thanks, guys.”

“Ant, just… com’on. Otherwise, I am calling your mom. And, you can go crash on her futon.” Henry threatens. Again.

Race shakes his head, and follows his… traitors into the house. “Mom doesn’t have a futon,” he grumbles.

 

Crutchie disappears into one of the rooms downstairs. “Don’t disturb me unless the house is on fire, we are in the path of an active volcano, or Trump declares war. And, then, only if it’s nuclear war.”

The door closes with a slam.

Race looks at Henry, questioningly.

“‘s Crutchie.” Henry shrugs. “The man is pure sunshine. Except when he feels like shit, and then he disappears for a while.”

Albert nods. “No spoons.”

“Spoons?” One of the roommates Race hasn’t met yet, asks. “Dishwasher?”

“Crutchie, Finch.” Albert shoots back. He looks over at Race. “And, probably Henry’s new… I dunno kid. Probably Henry’s Race?”

Channeling synchronicity honed by years of fighting with Resa; dodging third cousins twice removed who they’re supposed to be friends with but only see once in a blue moon, and therefore hate on principle; and serving mass together; Henry and Race turn together and flip Albert the bird.  
He seems only mildly perturbed.

They continue up the stairs, past a chairlift that Race finds _really_ tempting. 

Henry glares him a look. “You’re supposed to take classes before you use that thing.” 

“Says who?” Race asks, half joking.

“The bylaws,” another roommate says. He’s wearing a t-shirt with Joe Biden eating ice cream on it.

“The bylaws?” Race repeats.

Henry just shakes his head. “Elmo, you gotta stop fucking with the visitors. Ant, com’on, you look like you’re going to fall over or start crying.” 

He feels like he’s going to start crying soon, too. Fuck, he needs sleep. He really needs to sleep. He follows Henry past the guy in the vice presidential t-shirt and into one of the smaller rooms off the main landing.

His cousin looks him up and down, and sighs. “Fine, you take the bed. I’m gonna… Have you eaten anything yet?”

“I can fucking feed myself!” The words burst out, past the crumbling layers of politeness and courtesy. He’s just so tired of everyone asking him about food. And worrying about food. And asking if he’s eaten and he’s eaten and does he have food.

Henry just shrugs. They’ve known each other long enough. “Fine. Bathroom’s second door on your left. Sheets are…” He rummages in the closet, and throws a slightly rumpled set of sheets at Race’s head. “Sheets are clean. And, umm, if you need to do laundry…”

Race squeezes his eyes shut, and them pries them open again. “Thanks, Henry.”

Thank God, his cousin leaves. 

Race strips the bed mechanically, noticing the hospital corners that Henry uses - the ones Uncle Matt and Race’s mom always insisted on when they were kids - and remakes the bed with the same neat folds.

He fishes through his overnight bag until he comes up with his dopp kit and his last clean set of boxers. He looks around the room, and then hauls his tired ass down stairs.

“Henry?” He calls. “Fucker!”

“Did you not hear Crutchie, asshole?” Spoon roommate demands as Race slumps into the kitchen. He, Henry, and Joe Biden are sitting together, eating popcorn.

Race just stares at him. His hand goes to his collar, to grab the silver chain and circular metal that should be there, but isn’t. He’d broken the chain before the bake off, and he hadn’t known how badly he’d need Saint Anthony until now.  
For a moment, then a moment longer, and then he feels the fatigue gathering at the corner of his eyes. And, god dammit, he knows his sister cries when she’s tired for no good reason. Hell, his sister cries because it’s Tuesday, or really, any day that ends in “y”. But, Race isn’t Resa. Race doesn’t cry on demand. Race is usually better about holding himself together.

“Stronzo, you have a fucking towel?” The words are tighter than he expects them to be and they come out with more of an accent than he usually lets himself have.

Henry rolls his eyes. “As you fucking wish, Buttercup.” 

Race does not slam the bathroom door. There’s just a difference in pressure between the two rooms. Right.

 

The shower was awesome. Even if it wasn’t his shower, it still felt good. 

For whatever odd reasons, Henry somehow has the same set of soap and detergent he does. And so, his clean body smells mostly like it would have at home. The towel smells like it would have at home. And, the pump of shampoo he stole from the family sized bottle in the bathroom isn’t half bad, either. It wasn’t _his_ shampoo, but it wasn’t bad.

He shakes the wet hair out of his eyes, and stands in front of mirror in Henry’s gray towel. The white sensor in his belly sits just above the towel line, stark and clinical against a constellation of little scars from his insulin pump. The man in the mirror looks exhausted and sad, and ready to give up. 

Race feels every single one of his twenty-six years, and every single moment of the fifteen years, four months, eleven days and approximately fourteen hours since he was diagnosed. He stares into the eyes of a man who cheated death, and he feels the words of the palm sunday psalm on his lips. _My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?_

He squeezes his eyes shut against that tumult of emotion. He doesn’t need that strange comfort of religious guilt right now. He doesn’t need confession, doesn’t need to climb back into the shower sing hymns for the Gather book until his voice breaks. He needs to buck up, and move forward. God helps those who help themselves. 

But, as he goes back to Henry’s room, he goes through yet more careful calculus. It’s nine o’clock. He wants to sleep, more than probably anything. He’s going to start crying soon if he doesn’t sleep. 

But… long acting insulin. He takes it between eleven and midnight, before bed. Because… somehow… he and his doctor have carefully refined a formula that manages to avoid the dreaded pre-dawn spike, keep him stable throughout the day, and avoiding requiring him to get up early on weekends. It’s… imperfect. But, it works. The problem is that long acting insulin has a half life of about 24 hours. It’s not as bad as short acting: a hour early or late isn’t so dangerous. But three hours? Oh, God. Three hours in either direction will fuck him up, tonight or tomorrow night. Or…

If he goes to bed now, he has to wake up with the alarm he’s going to set. And, he’s not sure he can do it. He’ll fall asleep and wake up at three or four and then get up and take his insulin and his lexapro. He’ll be high, which isn’t so bad for tonight. But, then, tomorrow night…

And, if he says fuck it, and takes it now, then he’s going to deal with all the consequences of stacking insulin doses too close together. Which probably just means four am hypoglycemia. And, really, who doesn’t love waking up at four am to discover you’ve sweat so much the sheets are soaked through and now you have to problem-solve your way to sugar.  
Neither seem like good options.

Oh, and there’s the added benefit of _sharing_ a room. Last night… last night it wasn’t like he had much of a choice. He was Done: too tired to argue. He’d managed to hold himself together at the hospital, and he was proud of that. He’d managed to convince the doctor things were fine, or as close to fine as he could manage to convince her after he’d been admitted for a hypoglycemia crisis. And then, when Spot had said he was going to sleep over… he hadn’t had the energy to fight.

Tonight, though… even though he’s exhausted, he knows he won’t sleep well. When he shares a room, he feels like he always has to be half alert for the alarm that’s going to go off and wake the other person. He doesn’t know how people relax. It didn't used to be so bad, before the CGM. But, now? Now he can’t relax.

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to hold himself together. He can’t stay awake and he can’t fall asleep and he can’t admit just how scared he is right now. All he can do is cry.

* * *

Spot drops onto the couch like a rock, hoping that if he sits down the world will stop spinning for a while and will maybe make sense again. He doesn’t know how he got here. 

Well, he knows how he got _here_. When Albert said he wanted to get Crutchie home as soon as possible, Spot hadn’t argued. He was afraid, and Spot doesn’t do well with fear. He’s never seen Crutchie shut down like that, never seen him grit his teeth and cut people off and lie. And, he’d been lying. You could see he was in pain from the space station. 

Spot… Crutchie… they’d emailed a lot after they’d been in the baking class together. Seen each other occasionally at some of those city-wide meetups and camps for kids in the system. But, often enough, they wouldn’t run into each other for whatever reasons. It’s a lot easier to lie over the internet than it is in person, especially about something like this. So, Spot agreed that Albert should drive them back to the big house in Jersey where he and Crutchie live. He’d agreed, even though he knew backtracking would add four hours onto the trip. He’d even admitted that he didn’t trust Race alone that night. That he’s terrified that last night was normal for Race, that Saturday was normal for Race, that this is what life is like and that Race is okay with it.

Spot likes it when he can confront things that scare him. Punching your way through the things that scare you is easier than actually breaking them down and analyzing them. One requires stubbornness, which Spot has in spades. The other requires grit.  
Spot Conlon does not think that grit is one of his defining characteristics.

One of the not-Albert roommates drops down beside him. “Issac,” the guy says, offering his hand.

“Spot,” he says, shaking the offered hand.

“You want something to eat, Spot?” Issac asks.

Spot shakes his head, numbly. He’s not hungry, he’s… he’s empty. 

Issac gets up, anyway and goes to the kitchen for something. He plunks a bowl of chips on the beat up coffee table with the chewed pine leg, and then settles at the other end of the couch.

“Do you want to watch TV?”

Spot doesn’t fucking know if he wants to watch TV. Spot doesn’t know what he wants. He just stares off into the distance, and waits for Isaac to make up his mind. 

 

“Stronzo!” The sharp word cuts through the house. “Ya gotta fuckin’ towel?” 

Isaac startles from where he’s knitting. “Fuck,” he mutters.

Race sounds. Oh God. Spot doesn’t have the capacity to keep worrying about Race. Race is a fucking adult. Race is supposed to have this shit under control.

Given what they went through last night, fucker probably also doesn’t have any sugar on him.

“Hey… Isaac?”

Crutchie’s roommate looks over.

“Do you have a car?”

Isaac leads Spot into the kitchen. “Al, Crutchie’s friend needs to go somewhere.”

Al gets up, wiping his hands on his pants. “I ain’t taking you back to the city tonight. I already told Race no, and it’s like fucking ten pm. And, I have to work tomorrow.”

Spot doesn’t have time for this bullshit. He goes over, opens the cupboard, and starts pulling things out.

“Hey!” Albert complains. “Those are my gushers. And Finch’s coke.”

“So, take me to the goddamn store,” Spot demands. “Crutchie won’t let me drive his car without training, and…”

Albert thrusts a pair of keys at him. “Take my car.”

The roommate in the Joe Biden t-shirt gets up and stretches. “I’ll come with.”

Spot eyes him, suspiciously. 

“The house is weirdly hard to find in the dark,” he explains. “And, I want double stuffed Oreos.”

“Procrastination!” Someone at the table coughs.

Joe Biden squares his shoulders. “You want anything, assholes?”

They shake their heads, so he leads Spot out to the car.

 

The wall of soda is overwhelming. Spot isn’t sure what he should get. 

Sprite, probably. Race has shown a definite preference for Sprite. Race has also remarked on multiple occasions how much he hates sprite.  
Spot gets two-two liter bottles. 

Although, if Race goes through as much tonight as he needed last night, Spot is dumping his ass in Albert’s not so sensible car and then in the emergency room. 

Part of him regrets not taking Race back last night. He should have. It might have been safer. But, Race also might have killed him. Because, Spot knows - and Race knows - that getting out of the hospital last night was the thing that let him compete. If he’d stayed, the producers could have just eliminated him on medical grounds. So, the selfish part of Spot took him home and watched him, because this week, he’s guaranteed more time in Racetrack Higgin’s glow.

The soda joins a cart full of things that came from somewhere. Spot just isn’t quite sure where.  
There are potatoes, onions, bacon, avocados, and fresh greens. Elmo - that’s his name, right? - Elmo promises they have oil and vinegar and at home, so Spot’s body doesn’t need to put them in the cart while he’s not paying attention. A dozen eggs go in, a loaf of bread, a box of goldfish crackers, and a bunch of other things he can’t quite remember putting in the cart but are there when they check out.

Elmer raises his eyebrows as Spot dumps in a package of cigarettes and a lighter. He still shoves a $20 in Spot’s direction. 

And then, he drives them to the liquor store for a small bottle of scotch. Because Spot could fucking use a drink right now, even if he knows he shouldn’t. Alcohol isn’t a healthy way to cope with things, but sometimes, when he’s this tired, it’s nice. It’s another layer in that cocoon between you and whatever you’re too done to deal with. 

 

Spot shoves a bottle of Sprite at Henry - the cousin roommate - and then goes and sits on the couch with his mug cradled in his hands.

“What… what happened?” Henry comes back, face tight, and settles into a corner of the sectional. “Should, do you think? Should we call someone?”

By “someone” Spot assumes family. 

Spot shrugs. “He had an issue with this blood sugar.” 

Yeah, “issue”. That’s the best way to explain it. But, given how private Race is with the whole thing, how he wouldn’t have said a word to anyone if he didn’t have to, how he hides that tattoo on his wrist and then shows it so he doesn’t actually have to say the words. Spot doesn’t know how to explain.

“I have no idea what that means.” Henry just stares ahead. “Ya know, when it happened… it was this big thing. Anthony’s sick. We all knew, ya know? Anthony’s Sick and things are different.” He pauses, looks at the table. “You smoke?”

Spot shrugs. No really. Not at all. Cigarettes are one of the few triggers for the asthma that he mostly outgrew. He doesn’t know why he bought them. 

He follows Henry through the kitchen where Al and El are arguing about something. There’s a concrete slab patio behind the house. It’s smoother than Spot would have expected for the kind of place the boys live. It’s not that their home is ramshackle, exactly. But, it has a well lived and well loved feel. 

Henry settles into one of the black metal chairs, outlined in shadows by the yellow porch light. Spot drops beside him, feeling a chill from the late April night. 

Henry taps out a cigarette, and just holds if for a moment, cradling it between his fingers. 

“I have no idea what ‘issue’ means,” Henry picks up the conversation from where they left off. “No fucking clue. Ant got sick, and we stopped having homemade lasagna for a while, and Carma used to come over and talk to dad. It was terrible and sad. He stopped sleeping over, which was okay because we were like, eleven and thirteen? Fourteen? And in high school its not cool to hang out with your cousins anymore.”

He lights the cigarette, takes a long drag.

“And, he’d disappear at family meals. Like, he there, and then it would be time for prayers, and where the fuck was Anthony?” Henry gives a harsh laugh. “But, whatever that meant… I don’t fucking know.”

Spot doesn’t know what to say. He sits there, staring out into the dark yard and the… whatever lies beyond. It’s hard, out her, outside the city. Dark and wild.

“So, Spot. Can I call you Spot? What the fuck kind of name is Spot?” Henry turns to him.

“My fucking name?” His voice sounds as empty as he feels. He’s cold, so he takes a long drink from the mug he’s still cradling. The honey is sweet, the water’s cooling, but the whiskey still burns.

“So, Spot, I don’t know if I should worry or not. I don’t know if I should fucking call Aunt Carma, because Race did something stupid and is dying, or if I should call Uncle Ted, who, by the way no one has talked to since 2007, or what the fuck.”

Spot keeps staring into the darkness, looking for the monsters just beyond the light. 

“Did you ask him?” He says, finally. He can feel the whiskey and the smoke gathering in his throat, starting to grind against his vocal cords. His voice is rough.

“It doesn’t matter what I ask… he won’t tell me anything.” Henry takes another long drag on his cigarette.

 

The house is quiet when Spot finally goes back in. Yet another roommate - Finch, he thinks - is standing by the couch. It’s made up into a bed, with crisp white sheets folded down over a tan blanket.

“Towel,” he points, “and washcloth. Umm… bathroom is by the stairs, unless you need a shower?”

Spot shakes his head.

“Good.” Finch considers. “We’ll try to be quiet in the morning, but umm… if not. Sorry. I dont know what else to say?”

Spot nods again, sinks down onto the bed. He reaches for his mug to take a reassuring drink, and finds it empty. The bottom is just dregs of whiskey and honey. 

Finch perches on the couch, and takes a long look at him. “You… you okay, man?”

No one has asked Spot that yet. No one has thought to ask him that, yet.

“I don’t fucking know.”

* * *

Crutchie wakes up knowing what kind of day it will be. He went to bed, knowing what kind of day it would be. He feels fuzzy, his head aches and his vision swims when he tries to ease himself up. He’s tired. Fuck, he’s tired.

He scrubs a hand across his face, and reaches for the bottle by his bed. There’s something really satisfying about the sound. He pulls open the top drawer of his nightstand, and riles through it until his hand closes of the right pill bottle. He shakes out two tablets and grabs his water bottle. He makes _sure_ it’s his water bottle. He’d Bear Grylls’d it a few times. When Albert had found out, he’d made a special version of the meme, with Crutchie’s face superimposed. Because Albert is a troll. 

And then, he rolls over. He eases his hand down his leg to find the muscles and the residual ache, and hopes that if he touches his leg, it won’t set anything off.

It doesn't.

But, damn it, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. And, there’s no other way to say it. There aren’t enough words to describe the crawling, clinging, cloying pain that sits there, tight and hard and constant. “Burn” isn’t a good enough adjective for the way his nerves dance and sizzle at every little thing, sometimes sparking a thousand hot wires and sometimes absent and empty and numb. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

He turns into the pillow. He lets himself wimper, pitifully. There’s no one here to hear him. Even if someone is out in the living room, it’s too quiet. It doesn’t make the pain go away, but he feels better. Sort of.

 

The next time he wakes up, the sun is bright behind the mini-blinds. He’s not sure how long its been, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to check his phone and find out. It’s tempting, oh so tempting, to stay where he is a while longer. But, he’s already starting to feel a caffeine withdrawal migraine building behind his eyes. He could dip into the generic Excedrin he keeps around, but it won’t be nearly enough caffeine.  
It’s time to get up.

So, he eases himself over to his wheelchair, brushes his teeth, and goes to see what kind of coffee is left in the kitchen. Then, he can haul his ass back to bed with a hot water bottle and… nope. No more ibuprofen for another couple hours. And, he can sleep. 

He’s surprised, and… he’s surprised when he wheels himself slowly into the kitchen, limbs still heavy with sleep and benzodiazepine, and finds Spot Conlon here. Spot takes one look at him, and goes to the coffee pot and pours a mug.

Crutchie nods and accepts it. He cradles it for a moment, and then takes a sip. Spot makes an okay cup of coffee. It’s still coffee. 

They sit in silence. Spot’s got his mug in one hand, and his arms crossed over his bare chest. Crutchie huddles forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees and hands wrapped around the mug. The warmth and comfort doesn’t last long: he drains the cup while it’s still too hot to really taste.

Spot moves towards him, but Crutchie shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll get some more.”

He goes and re-fills him mug, and then starts the tea kettle that sits next to the Mr Coffee pot. Crutchie is perhaps the biggest coffee addict in the house, but Henry and Buttons aren’t that far behind. Albert drinks coffee, not because he likes it, but because it’s the social thing to do. He says he doesn’t care one way or the other, but he also prefers Crutchie’s coffee to free coffee he gets other places. He doesn’t say anything, but Crutchie can tell. Elmer is a heathen: he gets ninety percent of his caffeine in the form of energy drinks and the other ten from starbucks drinks that are more coffee-flavored milkshake than actual coffee. And, Finch likes tea. 

Crutchie goes looking for the french press which someone (Finch) put away in the wrong place, again. There are two in the house for many, many reasons, including the Epic Battle Royale that Al and El staged on the lawn last summer. Mostly, though, because Finch likes a french press for tea, and Crutchie likes one for coffee, and this way, there’s one in the lower cupboards and one up high. He doesn’t care: Finch, or Finch’s… connections had paid for both. He should appreciate living with the Cortez heir apparent more. He would appreciate living with the Cortez heir apparent more if the Patrick “Finch” Cortez would fucking put the French Press back where it belongs.

“Can you grab the french press? Second cupboard from the stove, bottom shelf.” He goes over to the freezer, assuming that Spot can follow directions. “And, grab the hand grinder. It’s either up there, or in the drawer below.”

Yes, he knows its fucking pretentious to have a hand grinder. But, there are also things he takes great pleasure in. And sometimes, even when it seems stupid, you invest in the things that give you pleasure. Or, your less practical roommates figure out your obsession and buy you a hand grinder for your birthday. One of the two. 

“Wait, no, is the electric grinder out?” He turns back.

He… he isn’t sure he has the spoons to spare. And, as much as he just wants to crash, he wants coffee more. It would be nice to not drink coffee and then go back to bed to sleep. Hopefully he gets one trip out of the house today. That would be nice. He’s not sure, though, and so, he’d rather not risk it.

He grabs the beans from the freezer drawer, puts them in his lap, and heads back. He goes through the practiced motions of making a cup of good coffee. It’s like he’s moving underwater, everything just slightly harder than usually. It’s better than the molasses fog earlier, so maybe it’s worth being optimistic.

“Do you want something to eat?” Spot asks. 

Crutchie swirls the French press. “I was just going to grab cereal.”

“Elmo and I borrowed Bert’s car last night. Did a grocery run. Decided we needed comfort food.” Spot is efficiently moving around the kitchen - Crutchie’s kitchen, starting to pull things out.

Spot’s body appears to be better at picking food than Crutchie’s. Crutchie tends to pick things that require minimal preparation, because sometimes the effort of going to the kitchen outweighs the benefit of anything he’s going to eat, let alone the effort that’s needed to cook it. But, rather than toaster waffles or microwave lasagna, Spot pulls out potatoes and onions and bacon and eggs. (Microwave lasagna _is_ a breakfast. Henry is just bitter and wrong. He can go suck a duck.) 

“Seen Race?” Crutchie asks, pushing down the plunger on the coffee pot. “Or, any of the boys?”

“Finch and Isaac banged around this morning,” Spot grumbled. “Henry and Elmer headed out on… something? Marathon training?”

Crutchie snorts. “What time did they leave?”

Spot shrugs. “After Big Bird, but before the second or… third time Race came down to bang around?”

Crutchie winces. He’s spent a night or two on the couch, when he was too drunk or too exhausted to head to bed. It’s comfortable, but Finch and Buttons are far from quiet. 

He reaches for Spot’s mug, and takes it over to the sink. He pours both of them a new cup of coffee. Crutchie raises his eyebrows when Spot goes to put milk in. Heathen. 

And then, he takes a long drink of his own cup. The first cup of coffee that morning had been good. But there’s a difference between merely good and this. It’s like the difference between a acquaintance and an old friend. And, it warms him the way a conversation might. It’s good the way seeing Spot again has been good. Crutchie hadn’t known how much he missed the friendship until Spot came back. 

Crutchie savors his coffee and the moment. And then, as always happens in this house, chaos erupts.

Race comes down, almost as sleep rumpled as Crutchie and makes a beeline for the fridge. He’s moving slowly, eyes glazed with sleep and… probably a low blood sugar.

Race pulls out the half full bottle of Sprite, winces, and then goes to the cabinet over the sink to find a glass. He studies the cup, studies the bottle, and pours himself a careful measure.

Henry and Elmer burst in, sweaty and gross from their run. 

“Hey, Ant, pour me some, too?” Henry asks, wiping his hand over his brow.

Race goes and gets another cup out of the cupboard, and sets it down. He picks up the bottle to pour, which sets off an almost cataclysmic series of bad luck events. His elbow knocks against the full glass next to him, which tips onto the cover sheet of Elmer’s thesis - which Finch was proofreading last night. (Finch knows jackshit about politics, but Finch knows how to ask excellently stupid questions in the margins that make Elmer giggle.) El goes to catch his thesis page - and manages to slide across the floor and knock over one of Button’s sewing boxes on the kitchen table. Buttons and accoutrements go flying. (And no, that’s not a word Crutchie would have used before moving in with Isaac.) The box itself knocks into one of Finch’s bird models, causing it to topple onto the floor and land on Henry’s foot. Henry starts jumping and swearing, because those things are deceptively heavy - the robotics definitely play a role, and this one was the penguin. Henry’s swearing startles Spot so much that he puts his cup down too hard, splattering himself and Crutchie with coffee. At least it’s cooled somewhat. But, it’s enough that Crutchie’s leg decides the period of inactivity was too much and the medication too little and all the stress of the weekend, and his foot starts cramping up again. It’s kind of weird to watch your foot move without feeling it, but that’s his fun, weird body.

“God fucking dammit,” Albert announces, looking around the room. “What the fuck happened here?”

Henry looks around, still hopping on one foot. “Hurricane Anthony.” His tone is light.

Race slowly turns glassy eyes toward Henry, staring at him without seeing him. One hand goes to the collar of his t-shirt, the other still clutching the glass in his hand. His face starts to crumple.

Spot slides over, says a few words. He hands Race the bottle, watching as he pours a new cup.

Crutchie’s foot starts spasming harder. 

Albert looks around. “Okay, now we’ve established there was a hurricane, looks like someone has to play FEMA. Com’on asshole.” He turns to Henry and Elmer.

Elmer starts picking up spilled buttons. Henry rolls his eyes, muttering about roommates and robots and cousins. Albert gets a roll of paper towels. Crutchie pours Spot a new cup of coffee, and grabs a travel mug for his next cup. And then, he heads back into his room. It he’s lucky, he can get a shower too, before Henry uses the rest of the hot water.

 

“Charlie?” There’s a knock at his door. He rolls over, pulling the pillow over his head. 

The knocking continues.

“Charlie?” The asshole at the door is persistent. “I swear to God, Charlie Morris, you’d better be dressed.”

Albert.

He loves Albert, okay? They’ve known each other forever. They ended up in the same group homes on and off and kids, and, he’s a good guy. Like, he and Elmer get into trouble, going out and searching for the Jersey Devil. His meme obsession is bordering on a problem, and he did get a reprimand at work for using his skateboard _in_ the building. (The argument that a lot of doctors used scooters was not lost on the management, but they pointed out that they were indoor scooters, and not Al’s all terrain skateboard.) But, Al is good people.

But… but right now, Crutchie is uninterested in hauling himself out of bed, again. He’s only got a certain number of spoons, between the weekend and the Bake Off in general, and the drugs, and his body just being his body. Albert knows, or Albert should know by now, that sometimes his body just does this. And, when it happens, the best thing to do is to let him sleep.

“Crutchie, get your ass out here. We’re having family breakfast.” Albert repeats, knocking on the door.

Crutchie sighs, and grumbles something about being out in a moment. He and Al both know it will be a bit longer, but at least he starts moving. He fumbles around with the damp sheets and wet towel until he finds the clean boxers he put out before he showered. He’s not going to bother with pants. He’s just… he’s not, okay? It’s his fucking house, and the other guys can deal. He dumps the towel on his bed and the towel from his chair in the laundry basket, and heads back out to the kitchen.

It looks better, and it smells good.

There’s another pot of coffee in the french press, which is already an improvement over his room. And, there’s a pan of something that smells awesome on the stove. Spot is frying eggs, the sides getting brown and the middle still soft.

Elmer is setting the table with their best mismatched cutlery, and Race is carefully following with napkins on a roll. Henry is pouring coffee. Spot is standing by the stove, frying bacon.  
Al’s got a dish towel over his shoulders, and he’s doing dishes. “You know, this is like one of my dreams,” he says offhandedly. “When I woke up, my lips were tingling.”

“Pretty girl?” Race asks.

“Pretty boy?” Elmer suggests.

“Pretty nonbinary person?” Crutchie chimes in.

Albert walks over to flick Crutchie lightly on the shoulder with his dishtowel. “A leg of lamb.”

Henry perks up and looks over at Race. “You ever made Nana’s recipe?”

Race shakes his head. “You know how I’m a disappointment to the Rossi line?” The words are said in an undertone with a slightly bitter note. He busies himself straightening the napkins, praying no one will notice what he said.

Henry snorts. “Not even close, my man. Not even close. You… you finished college and got a big fancy degree. Frankie ‘borrowed’ the neighbor’s urban chickens for ‘take your pet to school day’.” He does sarcastic air quotes. Crutchie’s work here is done. “They almost sent him off to Roosevelt for a couple of weeks to cool his jets.”

Race laughs. “Oh, God. Perish the thought. I can’t imagine the horror of being the 2010 salutatorian of Alice Roosevelt high school.” 

“Nerd,” Henry mutters, going over to make more coffee. 

 

Spot puts the cast iron skillet in the middle of the table, effectively silencing the argument. “Gentlemen,” he says grandly. “Food is served.”

They crowd around the table. Plates are passed. Coffee is drunk. It’s personable and pleasant, and lifts that air of tension that’s been palpable for a while. Henry and Race continue to give each other shit, regaling the table with stories of family escapades.

“...but not Korea!” Henry bursts out.

Race just laughs. “But not Korea,” he agrees.

 

Crutchie _thinks_ about going back to bed. He needs to lie down again, because the food was good, but now it’s time for a post-food nap. But, he also feels kind of guilty if he goes back to his room. So, he wheels into the living room, where, of course, the couch is down. Because there is a god.

“Hey, Conlon, you didn’t do anything terrible on my bed, did you?” He calls back into the kitchen, where Race is washing, Henry is drying, and Spot is supervising with a scowl.

Spot shrugs. “Slept, ate some crackers, and beat off to my thoughts about Barbra Streisand, Captain America, and that kid who doesn’t dance from High School Musical.”

Crutchie can’t believe he made that reference. He still goes and gets clean sheets. They’re going to be doing so much damn laundry when Race and Spot leave. And… he doesn’t actually care, because he pays Finch an extra $20 a month and bribes the house with cookies, and someone else does his laundry. He could, he has, but maneuvering his chair and a laundry basket in a cramped space is a recipe for boxers with wheelchair tracks on them.

“Hey Spot, since you messed up the last one, you want to help me out?”

Spot comes over and puts the sheet on the bed. Crutchie settles himself. “So, Netflix? Or, do you guys need to go back?” 

Spot shrugs. “I was schedule to be off today, and I hope Racer called in. Or else someone called in for him. Henry said he didn’t get much sleep either, last night.” 

Crutchie queues up Netflix, and flips through the shows, until he finds something he likes. Spot climbs over the back of the sectional, and sits on the long arm of the L that parallels the sofa bed. Crutchie lets Race warily climb over him to settle by Spot. Henry flips onto the other end of the sectional. 

“Didn’t stick the landing,” Crutchie tells him. “6 out of 10.”

Henry flips him off, good naturedly.

Crutchie stretches, and yawns. “I’m gonna put this on, because it’s awesome, and I don’t care if I fall asleep.”

Henry glances up. “This?”

“The one baking show you could actually compete in?” Race suggests, reading through the description.

The get to the end of the first episode. There’s something wonderfully delicious about seeing how the bakers fail, despite being set an impossible challenge. But, Crutchie is a big fan of pinterest fails.

Race has moved across the bed, closer to Spot, to make a sarcastic comment or two to him.

In the second episode, the judge isn’t as good as the first one, but he’s not bad. Race starts to slump, and frankly, Crutchie doesn’t blame him. As the episode proceeds, Race leans closer and closer to Spot, who eventually, grudgingly, puts his arm around Race’s shoulder.

Crutchie feels himself drooping, and eases down on the bed. His spoons are running out quickly, too.

He doesn’t remember much of the third episode, because he’s asleep before it starts. Because he needs more sleep. Because he owes a spoon debt, and the only way he’s going to be able to function again is if he pays the piper. At least this time, it feels like he bought something worthwhile in exchange.

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly self indulgent hurt/comfort. Ive had a few nasty lows and a couple weekends where I couldn't leave the house, and so, this is what you get. Also, I _do_ love my cousins. Even if one of them took pigs and chickens to school when he was in high school.
> 
> Umm... Please do not feed your local diabetics chocolate when they're hypoglycemic. Please do watch _Nailed It_ on Netflix. I could have worked more of the show in, but Crutchie and I were falling asleep. Its awesome.
> 
> Let me know what you think? Or, if there are roommate specific things that need to happen related to the bake-off. Umm... Im also sort of thinking about podficcing this. I have segments recorded which are super awkward. So, let me know in the comments if I should stick that up as a chapter 2?


End file.
